


Consent

by Gemenied



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Non Consensual, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-05
Updated: 2012-10-05
Packaged: 2017-11-15 17:20:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemenied/pseuds/Gemenied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She'd do anything to help him. He comes to make use of that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consent

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the show or its characters. Unfortunately.
> 
> Many, many thanks to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta!

** Consent **

It was crude and harsh and not at all like she'd expected it to happen. But, she as reminds herself while trying to stem the tears that should not fall, how could she have expected for it to be like in her dreams?

Those were silly flights of fancy, born from wishful thinking of a Prince Charming that he's never been. She's laughed at her own romantic ideas before, only in the harsh lamplight of her living room it hurts. It hurts so damn much that she wants to tear her heart out, if only not to feel the pain any longer.

Of course it doesn't happen. She doesn't just drop dead in an instant or the ground doesn't open up to swallow her whole. Instead she's forced to relive every tiny detail with painful clarity and in photographic sharpness.

How she had settled on the sofa with the telly running, nothing much on, of course. When is there ever? A glass of wine next to her, several sheets of papers and a few files spread around her. She wasn't reading them very carefully, her gaze straying towards the screen distractedly.

She was comfortable enough, but not very relaxed. Something was working in the back of her mind and in all honesty, it was the obvious thing. Her gaze had swept over the phone in the corner, but she had suppressed the urge to call him and inquire how he felt.

How the rain had splashed against the window panes and she had pitied anybody having to be out and about in the abysmal weather.

She didn't think, of course, didn't imagine...or maybe she did.

And then,... It was just after the evening news had finished and she had contemplated giving up on the pretence of either watching telly or working and just getting into bed. Sleep wouldn't come easy tonight, her mind too much in turmoil and worry for that, but at least she'd be more comfortable there.

The knock had come then, the heavy knocker against the wood of the front door. She'd been surprised by the noise, but not by the person making it. Somehow, she'd expected that. And was glad that he'd come, sought her out, let her help.

He'd looked terrible in the harsh light from the street lamp behind his back. Hair slicked to his head by the rain, the many, big wet patches on his suit. It was the same suit he had worn that morning, only now it was in just as bad a state as its wearer.

"Grace," he'd slurred, and a moment of unease had touched her then. There were few options how this would go, taking his drunkenness into account.

He could slur a little and then collapse onto her sofa, falling into the oblivion of sleep and the worst damage would be to the upholstery. Or, and that caused her unease, he could remain awake, continue drinking and do God knows what. Rage – verbally and physically – or he could brood, making it impossible for her to reach him.

The memory of that first word, her name, the sound of it, takes her back into the moment, making her an observer from memory and a participant all the same.

"Grace," he slurs again, his voice much closer now, and to her surprise she realizes that he is half hanging in her hallway already, crowding her against the wall.

"Boyd?" she whispers, not liking the way her voice sounds thin and squeaky. It's not like her and it doesn't make her feel like she's in control of this situation.

She isn't as becomes painfully obvious within a moment. He leans forward, his hands against the wall on either side of her body, effectively trapping her. He leans forward and before she can say anything, his mouth is on hers.

It's a test, a tentative brushing of his lips against hers, and the feeling of it sends her mind reeling. A large part of her brain registers that his breath reeks of liquor, but another is overwhelmed by the fact that he's kissing her. Finally.

Maybe he takes the immediate lack of resistance as a sign that she consents, that she wants this too, for seconds later all tentativeness is gone. His lips are pressed against hers, just like his body pushes hers into the wall. He's all teeth and insistent lips, his tongue pressing against her for entrance. She reacts to the pressure, opens up instinctively and has his tongue down her throat before she knows what's happening.

His hands are on her shirt, pulling, then ripping, so that it effectively traps her arms at her side. Without a second thought, he pushes her bra aside and goes for her breasts, squashing and squeezing so that she cries out. It's not a tender touch, and pain and surprise mingle to create both her verbal reaction and a frisson of fear. She didn't expect this, didn't expect anything like this. Not the crudeness, not her reactive shivers.

At the same time, he's pushed her legs apart, inserted is knee between hers and now rubs his groin against her. He's hard and greedy, given over to his lust and whatever drives it.

He wants her, wants her desperately and now. She wants him too and that's possibly the only saving grace of the act.

He still works her breasts roughly, kneads and twists and pinches. It's painful and it's arousing, setting her body aflame. Their kisses are wild and unrestrained, tongues clashing and teeth nipping and biting.

They work each other, though he's much more aggressive. He pulls her lounge pants down and shoves her panties aside, his fingers going in for the kill. She isn't ready yet, hardly surprising considering they've been at it barely a few minutes and she's still in shock, more than anything. This isn't how she expected it to be, she never thought this would happen, certainly not like this. She isn't prepared mentally, and being a creature of mind and brain, her body hasn't caught up either.

His fingers work her demandingly, readying only minimally for what's to come. Then he goes for his belt and trousers, freeing himself. He's hard and hot, she can feel that against her skin, and a short glimpse shows that he's larger than...well, anything she's had in a long while...and the frisson of fear is back.

She realizes that they haven't said a word except each other's names since he's arrived. They've also not looked at each other. He just came in, shoved his tongue into her mouth and ripped her clothes off.

"Boyd!" she whispers urgently against his lips as he draws back for a moment to catch his breath. He looks haggard, much older than she's ever seen him, and there's a glazed expression on his face, as if he isn't fully cognizant of what he's doing. "Boyd!" she repeats, with more urgency.

He doesn't listen, licking and nipping on her neck, ignoring how she begins to struggle, with her shirt and against the cage he's build for her. Finally her hands are free and she pushes against him. He's much stronger than her, of course, and he is aware only of himself and what he wants, so her struggle is unsuccessful.

He's drunk and horny, though she suspects it's born out pain, more than anything, and she's no match for his strength.

"Boyd," she repeats, now desperately pushing against him. That gets through to him, making him draw back to look at her.

His gaze is unfocussed and as her body calms down a little, she becomes aware of the stench of alcohol again. He looks like he's been through hell, which is apt considering what he's had to do today. His eyes are nothing but black holes, leading to a bottomless pit of despair from where there might be no return.

If they go through with this now, in the way it is developing, it will add to the tragedy, making it worse.

She knows that and as a sliver of clarity begins to return into his stance, she knows that he knows it too. He draws back further, as if recoiling from the situation, and this time it's her who takes the first step. Her hand grabs him, and though she isn't as rough as he was with her, her intent is clear and irrefutable. Her other hand pulls on his shirt, bringing him closer so that she can kiss him anew.

It's still not tender, for this isn't about tenderness. It's about forgetfulness, about easing the tension...about...anything really.

This time it's her tongue down his throat and her hand grabbing and pulling at his hair. She strokes him relentlessly, pushing herself into the moment and shutting her mind up. Don't think. Just feel.

He groans, a sound like a wounded animal, but she ignores it, concentrates on the shivers rushing through his body. They grind against each other, kissing roughly. His hands come back into the game, squeezing her arse and her breasts. Her mind supplies the words she imagines him thinking; they are crude and rude, but it doesn't matter now.

They are reaching the necessary level and the point when he takes matters into his hands, so to speak, and guides himself home. He pushes quickly, swallowing her scream into his mouth. It's not just pleasure, that scream, there's a good deal pain and despair in it, but it doesn't matter to him now. It doesn't even matter to her for the moment.

A few thrusts, a few more bites and he comes, spilling himself and then all but collapsing into her while his body shudders uncontrollably.

She's nowhere near completion, not even into pleasure yet. It won't come, she knows, not from him. It grips her heart and squeezes coldly, forcing her to close her eyes against the pain it causes. He doesn't see it and she's glad about it. She's consented, offered even, which is the only saving grace of the situation.

After a few minutes he pulls back, even turns away to put himself together again. He can't look at her and she knows that it comes both from embarrassment and the usual bout of post-coital sobriety. Pained, she also guesses, that he's beginning to realize just whom he's sought out to relieve the tension, the desperation. Realizes and recoils.

It's still dark in the hallway, so she can't really see his expression. He's continuously not facing her and she grimaces, taking it for confirmation of her final explanation.

"Boyd?" Her voice sounds small, giving her reason to be embarrassed. She doesn't want to sound vulnerable, because that's exactly what she is now, but she doesn't think she'll get a chance to have it addressed. He can't address it now and if the situation were different...well, this particular situation would not exist.

It was an almost clinical act and it's a clinical aftermath.

"I need to go," he says and she nods in reply. What else is supposed to do? Offer him to stay? Make him talk? Demand that he finish for her what he's taken for himself? She's the furthest possible away from any sexual feeling at the moment and so she remains silent, letting the moment drag out.

Too long, for he turns away and without another sign of acknowledgement leaves.

It is the heavy click of the door falling into its lock that wakes her up from the surrealism of the situation. She stands there, leaning against the wall for support, with an expression of blankness. Her shirt and bra are ripped, the pale skin of her breasts is bruising already from where his fingers gripped, her legs are shaking and between them there's a rawness, a dull ache.

She doesn't know what to do, feels like she wants to sob her heart out, but the tears won't come. Worse than the pain in her body is the pain in her heart. She feels like something has died in her and yet...she consented. He needed her and she gave him what he needed. The small, but oh so important word of rejection never passed her lips.

Unsteadily, she stumbles back into the lounge, drops bonelessly back onto the sofa, only to be painfully reminded what has just happened. She gives a small scream, but it vanishes into thin air, not followed by anything other than her shallow breathing.

She sits and stares into the distance. Before her mind's eye old visions and dreams, those ridiculous flights of fancy appear like film scenes, mocking her maybe, reminding her for sure. This was the furthest from anything she had imagined – crude and clinical, but maybe it was necessary like that. Maybe she needs the pain as well, needs to endure some measure of what he goes through - to understand, to empathize, simply to be allowed to continue existing in his circle.

She keeps sitting there for hours, staring unseeingly ahead. It turns cold in the house as the heating recedes for the night hours. She doesn't notice.

The rain stops at some point, maybe around two in the morning, but she doesn't notice that either, even though the numbers are clearly visible on the telly that's still running.

It even becomes light without her noticing.

She sits and she stares, caught in her own personal purgatory of dreams that are far removed from reality.

At the sound of the knocker, she startles and shrinks into herself, in fear of who she is certain is outside. She's cold, frozen even. For a moment she contemplates not moving, refusing to answer, but there's still a light on and the telly visible from outside. He knows she's there and she knows that he won't give up. He also knows where the spare key is hidden and if she doesn't open, he will come in anyway.

When she opens the door, the first sob rises upon seeing him, but doesn't leave her mouth. Still the same suit, only partially dry on him now. His hair beginning to dry. 'He'll catch a massive cold,' is her first instinctive thought, but it's quickly replaced by another: he looks worse than he did hours ago. Eyes blood shot, the bags underneath darker than usual. His posture is defeated, a convict heading for the executioner's block. Yet, the alcohol is gone. In fact, he's stone cold sober.

He looks like hell. He thinks the same about her. She hasn't changed her clothes, hasn't washed her face or combed her hair. For all it's worth, she looks like she hasn't moved from the spot by the wall since he left.

Their eyes connect, lock, and there's so much pain in both pairs that the tears rising in both their throats almost burn them away with their acid.

There is no way back, they both know it in that moment. It is never again going to be like it was. They can't go back.

He steps forward, into the house, and this time, he turns on the hallway light, before he closes the door. She now uses those bloody energy saving bulbs, so it takes a few minutes before the room is fully lit, but the dimness is welcome. Warm.

He tentatively extends his hand, his fingertips touching her cheek. Her eyes are wide, even fearful, and she jumps at the contact. So does he, but more from the shock of just how icy her skin is. Something breaks in him and he takes another step forward.

Instinctively his arms sneak around her lithe frame, pulling her against him, so she can be warm again. There must be something in his expression which makes her trust him, because she doesn't pull back, doesn't fight, but instead slowly relaxes into his embrace.

They stand like that for an interminable while, slowly feeling the other give away his control, the tight rein on their feelings.

And then the tears come. Finally. And with their wholehearted consent.


End file.
